The Spanish Condition

I’ve realized today again how fickle life can be. How the way you walk changes when the ideal of life is shattered. What is the ideal? My ideal has altered so rapidly with my walk that I know I’m not ready for the awkward steps that are sure to follow. How can you be ready for that change in stance? It becomes so solid that I may never again soak myself in something so real, so faint and so subtle. My window is a beautiful, fractal piece of art, and I will hide it forever under a sheet of false hope and pretence so shy.

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